Illusions of Perfection
by Becky4
Summary: Voldemort has been defeated, but we soon discovered that war isn't ended that easily, or abruptly. The prophecy has been fulfilled, but at what cost for those left standing? Formerly Reminiscence.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything depicted in the books, or movies. All the original features, and plot however, are mine. 

Author comments: This story was originally titled Reminiscence. It has however, been extensively revised, and in it's new form hopefully expands into many other areas. 

Tears make shiny streaks down my face as I clumsily cast a few clothes into my now open suitcase. I have to get away, to escape this place. No one will want me here now. 

If I were to stay, things would be awkward, disjointed, and there would be the very particular pointed pain of seeing him every day at the breakfast table, where he would have two slices of toast and marmalade, accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey. Perhaps we would pass in the hallway between third and fourth periods on a Tuesday, or first and second on a Friday. Obviously the staff room would be a problem, because I know how much he enjoys resting in the old leather armchair that mutters to him as we take stock of the day's events. 

More painful than glancing at his form however, would be the real truth that burns me to the core: the places he would never be again, in front of me, beside me, inside me. It wasn't just the absence of his physical presence that would hurt me though; our relationship had more substance than that. Or should I say, did have more substance than that.

Not really caring if they are folded, I just keep transferring articles, one after the other, from my wardrobe, shoving and crushing them down on top of each other into my suitcase.  

Everything was my fault. How could I have been so stupid as to think that I could actually make things better? All I had been doing was playing in an adult's world, when it was now so obvious that my dreams were still that of a child.  

This was the only way. It had to be like this; it was better for everyone. They wouldn't have to try and be polite and understanding. 

Not that I would ever expect that of certain people. Some will gloat and say 'I told you so'. Well let them; I won't be here to feel their breath, as the metaphorical noose gets tighter around my neck.

Shrinking my suitcase, I pause to take one final, fleeting look at our quarters; it's caught like the sharp flash on the negative of a photograph.  Oh God, I had been so happy here, felt so much love and warmth, experienced what I had thought was understanding.  Now the latter was so evidently false, I was false, it seemed. 

Hearing a muted sound, I register the once coherent form of my favourite plant pot; so mundane and plain that it was not something I would normally care about breaking. The formerly smooth edges cut the air like a razor and the dark earth dribbles out, tracking the edges of the stone slabs that coat the floor. I had broken it, not intentionally, but accidentally. Feeling a tear run down my cheek, I realise that it echoes the end of our relationship: unintentionally destroyed, not deliberately.  

I wonder if I will be as casually brushed up and thrown away as those shards. Will I be as easily replaced?  Thankfully, I won't ever know. 

Taking the less frequently used side exit from the school, I barely notice as I brush past a few students on their way into the dormitories. It's still not dark, but there is a shadow in the air that tells them that the hour for play is past. Briefly, I consider the picture I must present. I haven't looked in a mirror because the temptation to break it would have been too great; I didn't need seven years of bad luck as well as everything else.  

Stumbling suddenly, I smell fresh summer grass below my nose, and feel the soft ache of ground-scuffed knees. Lying on the hard bed whose green mattress offers no comfort, I stay stagnant and still, only taking notice of the pressure on my chest as it presses rhythmically against the solid form of the earth. While the movement informs me that my body is still alive, my soul feels like it is dead, slowly rotting and sending its rancid smell to putrefy and infect the lawn beneath. Would its decay turn the living, feeling blades to the dry, crisp cover that graces my parent's lawn in the mid-summer months? 

Rising hastily, I stumble carelessly through the wards that guard the perimeter of the grounds. The extra security measures are not as strong as they once were, but my departure will be felt. They will know my individual signature, recognise my blood, my essence, me.  

Not many here know the Muggle world, and suddenly I decide that, for now, the Muggle world is where I will go. 

I fix my mind on the sea and close my eyes as the world swirls around me, only half registering a shout as the air around my form whistles and swirls. The effort burns my skin, and I feel the harsh prickle as my atoms are realigned once again. Then I smell the fresh tang of the sea, hear the gulls and, opening my eyes, glance the dusky beige sand beneath my feet.

_____________________________________________________________

Over six months later….

 Too many times I have tried to write the words to help me out of this situation, but they always seem to elude me.  I, who have always been known for my voracious appetite for this form of expression, cannot seem to actually apply them to the page in any coherent form. No, that's not correct. I am usually very capable of forming the evidence of my mind's intents, purposes, and impressions, in what certain people called excessive quantities. 

Harry and Ron could always be counted upon to provide me with numerous comments with regards to essay lengths, specifically, my ability to surpass the required measurement quite excessively. Less frequent were my counter attacks regarding their tendency to only just scrape the bottom of the last inch. They sometimes seem to forget the countless times I lent them the odd few sentences to stretch their own work out, until, one late Sunday evening after Quidditch, I declined to assist them. 

Needless to say I wasn't popular for a while, though not as ostracised as when I got Harry's new Firebolt broom quarantined by Professor McGonagall in third year. That was something I was not allowed to forget for what seemed like an extremely long time.  

After a while, they did begin to realise the importance of completing their homework under their own steam, but they never did get the hang of time management quite as quickly, or as easily.  

Quickly and easily. Those are two things that would be of use to me at the moment, and not just to prevent another broken nib or 'spelled-out' parchment from being consigned to the bin. 

The failure to commit to flesh the language that is so difficult to speak is probably due to the thoughts and feelings that the words convey, rather than the actual marks themselves. Anyone can copy information from a book and incorporate some personal thoughts and opposing arguments. It is, however, much more complex to set down words that are conveying personal and private messages. Never have I been a person disposed towards composing my own creative literature, outside of a few love letters I had tried to, rather unsuccessfully, foist on unreceptive boys at first school.

Jack Mason had been the young boy who had caught my eye one morning break, across the sport stripes and netball hoops littering the playground.  

Little did I realise that Mr Mason was the preferred choice of many girls in that large grey area where we had spent our playtimes.  Even before the bells that routinely signalled the conclusion of the lesson before break had ceased their surprisingly mellow tones, about eight or nine girls would, not very discreetly, re-enact a scene more commonly associated with a chicken shed. 

By the end of the year, Jack was engaged to a dozen of his 'chicks' and had taken to kissing them under cover of his coat. Whatever concealing factor he was trying to achieve was rendered obsolete, by the fact that these engagements occurred underneath the netball hoop in the main playground.

If I'm honest, I also don't care to revisit the rather embarrassingly unflattering crush I had at one time suffered for Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Lockhart was what Ron would describe as a twat. Hagrid, however, had the claim on my personal favourite; it is surprisingly eloquent and succinct.

"If one word of it was true, I'll eat my Kettle." 

If I were in a cruel mood I would say those eleven words summed Lockhart's character up to perfection, but tonight isn't the time for callous thoughts. Now, I see him as a vainglorious man who took the triumphs of others and conscripted them into his own repertoire.  

His fate was sad but ironic. It seemed that the memory charm expert wasn't so expert as he claimed to be. For he now casts a shadow on the wall behind his hospital bed, and has more in common with the baby dolls that sleep, talk, and wet the bed. 

In a visit to St Mungo's in our fifth year, it was revealed that he had managed to re-master cursive writing. On a more recent visit, I was pleased to report back that he had accomplished the dangerous feat of recognising his own signature. 

I'm not someone who normally revels in the discomfort of others, but even I must be allowed some degree of leniency in reference to that man, and not just because of the fact that I had briefly, in the distant past, fancied him rather a lot.

Obviously the next stop must be Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker, whom I first laid eyes upon during the Triwizard Tournament. That was the year Cedric Diggory had died at the hands of Voldemort, the year Harry began to notice girls, and the year that I finally got a proper date. 

Victor was well known and I was probably the last person anyone, including myself, and more importantly, Ron, would have considered as his first choice for dance partner. Once again, the truth rears its head and whispers in my ear that the reason I had said 'yes' had been because I was tired of Ron Weasley ignoring me; and of course, at the same time, I was flattered by Viktor's obvious attentions. 

Owls had been frequently gouging a track in the sky between Durmstrang and Hogwarts, but it wasn't long before I realised that a long-distance romance wasn't going to work on a long-term basis. 

I did like him, a lot, but it was more the schoolgirl kind of love. The emotions I feel for Remus, on the other hand, are much more intense and complicated, and that is the relationship that I'm trying to salvage.

Receiving the freshly collected coal from the scuttle, the fire now rushes up to greet what must be a rather solemn looking face.  Nicely rendered, but features lacking any attempt to emphasise themselves.  Hair that still, after three newly improved Sleek-Easy Potions defies me, and insists upon remaining rather sadly, an excuse for Ron's occasional humour. 

This route of thought does, however, allow me to tackle another boyfriend, as it seems my brain has decided it likes the regurgitation of romances gone by.  

Which, much as I don't really want to admit it, I realise its just another delaying tactic that allows me to avoid putting quill, pen, or, like I feel I'm doing, blood, to parchment.  Pessimistic, depressed and with a rather cruel and dry attempt at humour, my subconscious mutters that I haven't got that many notches on my broomstick. As I stand regarding the rather fine mantle over my fireplace, I decide that another few minutes of postponement would not make a vast difference. 

How do I categorise my feelings for Ronald Weasley?  I do still love him the same way I did throughout the nine months we dated, but the fact was that it was the love you feel for a friend.  

I had confused companionship and friendly love with the romantic kind, because he had finally admitted that he liked me. Being in a time of stress and conflict, emotions were high, and it seemed natural to take what I thought was the next step in our relationship.  It wasn't exactly a mistake, and I would never regret it, but in the often harsh light of a new day, I realised it was a lack of understanding about the different levels and degrees of love that led me to date him. 

When I told Ron that what I felt wasn't enough for anything more than friendship he was very upset for a long while. I also know Harry felt ill at ease around us both. The dynamic of the trio had been altered, and even now isn't what it once had been. But there were other factors that further aggravated that particular situation.

I had expected Ron to be a little shocked when Remus and I told everyone about the two of us, but he accepted it in good spirit. 

It had been Harry who had very vocally displayed his disgust and amazement over our relationship. Perhaps he felt the disparity in ages would be a problem. Maybe he didn't want to see Remus hurt me, or vice versa. Whatever the grounds were, there was a distance and coldness in his attitude towards the two of us that caused us both sorrow. 

Ron has told me many times that he is utterly frustrated by Harry's opinions. Sometimes I think that he is on the edge of punching him, and that is not a situation I desire.   No one wants to be the cause of their friends' argument, me especially, but sometimes you have to make decisions about your own life that may act like a ripple in a pond: the cause of ever- increasing circles. 

Neither Remus nor I could live our lives to the dictates or whims of others. This new world order that was so fledgling in it's conception demanded that we fight for what we believe in, and at that time we had believed it was us, living our lives together. 

Almost a year and a half has now passed since the final battle. Well, the last battle with Voldemort at least. We all realised that he wasn't going to be the only evil we would face, and the fact also dawned upon us that there would always be those amongst us who would believe in his cause, or some derivative of it.

Remus had told me, in one of our regular, and sometimes passionate, discussions, what he believed evil was. I had asked him one quiet evening when we were alone in our little house last summer, only a few short months after that final thrust of the sword had taken Voldemort to his own master. He had replied that the closest he could come to any true definition was that evil was a lack of empathy, because if the emotional responses to their actions could be felt by the aggressor, then they would cease to perform them. 

My personal thoughts on war were that its opposite wasn't peace, as a lot of people believed, but rather creation: perhaps new life could spring from the bones and ashes of the fallen. 

These feelings, however, were not the reason I was writing with the well-used and ink-stained quill that had been with me since I had first attended Hogwarts. It was a comfort blanket, and I only used it when I had something particularly difficult to express. It seemed to somehow remind me of what I now looked on as the idyllic and almost utopian times of my formal wizarding education. Yes, we had been at war, but the adult responsibilities I have now were not something I had to consider. We had concentrated on one objective; the future, and adult life, had seemed a long way off. 

As the nib ceased its scratching, another erasing spell whisked across the parchment, casting a green tinge on the thin skin for what seemed to me to be at least the several dozenth time. 

Reaching across the desk to raise the wineglass to my lips, I notice the sizzle as the steam of my breath marked the rim and left the surface frosty and opaque. A touch like a kiss glanced my cheek as lengths of hair escaped from behind my ear; I was already cast adrift from reality like the liquid that had slipped from the now kaleidoscopic pattern of glass that glinted on the stone slabs that formed the floor. My mind had taken me back again into the past.

It's hard to put into words the sensations that had existed in the aftermath of that conclusive conflict. Much more than an adrenaline rush hit us that night. It was as if we realised all that we had, and all that we could have lost. Dreams, nightmares, and desires adhered to form an almost coherent voice that seemed to trace across everyone's senses; even the most stoic, unemotional, and reclusive amongst those who found their way into the school that night.     

I remember the precise moment that I gave into the attraction that had been slowly developing over those last months of formal education at Hogwarts.  It had been something I had avoided looking at too closely, for fear that I would have to realise the truth behind the walls I had erected as barrier with an almost Herculean effort.

Having previously experienced a crush on a professor, I knew that the way I regarded Remus was nothing akin to that. 

It had started as a brief spark one evening while sitting alone at Grimmauld Place. We had been pouring over books that had been procured from what was, as Molly would say, to be considered a very dubious source; texts even the restricted section at Hogwarts would blanch at. It was not, at that point, a mutual realisation. It was, for me, another foundation stone; a step towards something that would grow increasingly stronger. The mortar that bound it to its fellows had become more distinct as we worked together that summer, and during my final terms at Hogwarts. 

Although now it seems that the structure, our relationship, was insubstantial. The materials themselves were strong, but the skills and knowledge needed to bind them fully were not based on solid ground. My own insecurities and expectations had been the cause of the subsidence, and quick collapse.  

One of those building blocks came on yet another late night, the penultimate before we returned to school after the Christmas festivities. It was the scene for the first of those not exactly embarrassing, but slightly awkward moments in the dance that is mutual, unacknowledged attraction. Like that pulse-quickening moment when you touch hands unexpectedly, or catch the other's eye and the contact is kept for too long. 

It was something that, at that time, for many reasons, I knew I couldn't pursue. Not only because at that point he was still my teacher, but also, the reality was that the hostilities were increasing tenfold, and it was neither sensible, nor appropriate to begin a romantic relationship.

I had, at that time, considered myself to be a sensible person, so initially when my feelings towards my DADA professor began to shift away from platonic friendship and respect for a mentor, it caught me unawares. 

It had been the last week of January in my sixth year. I had at first decided to dismiss it as a hormonal imbalance, or a misunderstanding of emotions, but the feeling hadn't wanted to be sidelined. Over the next few months I progressed from attempting to avoid him as much as possible, which in itself had caused various unforeseen problems. My eyes had taken to watching him, whenever I had the chance, like an addict getting a fix.  It had taken a very good friend to point this fact out to me, and it had been then that I realised that I could not set aside my changing feelings towards my Professor. 

*************************************************************

_"You like him don't you?"_

_"Of course I like him, he's our professor"_

_"That's not what I mean Hermione, and you know it"_

_I look away, avoiding her penetrating eyes. They're not accusatory, it's just I need time to acknowledge the fact that someone other than myself realises my thoughts about Remus are more than what they should be for a teacher._

_"Is it that obvious? I mean, do I make it look like I'm attracted to him? Please, Ginny, tell me"_

_Noticing the smile that turns her lips upwards, I proceed to whip up my pillow and hide within its soft embrace. _

_"Hey, it's not that bad you know." I hear the chuckle in her voice as she tries to prise the cushion from hands that are clutching the sweet-smelling case. _

_Reappearing finally, amidst rays of now static hair, I sigh and harshly commit the padded filling to the floor. Smiling, Ginny throws the case down on top of it. _

_We are alone in my house; my parents had left us to do 'girly' things while they went to the annual Boating Club Summer Ball. They had never actually done any sailing. I think that it was more a pretence with them; it was, after all, the done thing to be a member of the Peter Gregory Lake Club. _

_Was that what I was doing? Just putting on a show of indifference? Could everyone see that I liked Remus Lupin, Professor Lupin, member of the Order of the Phoenix, in a way that was inappropriate?_

_"How can it not be that bad?" I wailed. "I mean, if you can see it, what's to say that everyone else can't? Oh, Ginny what if he can? What if he knows I like him? Perhaps that's why he didn't want to go with me to collect that book. What if that's why he has been trying to avoid me? What if Harry knows, or Ron? What if they all know? How will I ever live this down?" _

_If he did know, I really do believe that I would never be able to look him in the eye again without taking on the appearance of a freshly pickled beetroot._

_"It was bad enough after my crush on Lockhart," I continued, " but this… how will anyone ever forget it?"_

_"Herm…Hermione… look at me! Look at me, Hermione Granger!"_

_Her strong tone finally makes me meet her eyes._

_"Do you want to know what I think, or are you going to continue sitting there, wallowing in self-pity?" _

_Taking my silence as a nod to the affirmative Ginny continues._

_"Firstly, can you really believe that Ron or Harry will notice your feelings towards Lupin? Ron never even noticed when you liked **him**, let alone anyone else. Harry…well, I think he has too many other things on his mind to spot your attraction to your adorable werewolf."_

_"Ginny," I squeal._

_"Well, you obviously think he is." Taking my hand she continues. _

_"This is what I think. In this time more than any other, we mustn't disregard any feelings of love we have, because there are forces that are already working towards doing just that. I don't mean that you should tell him, certainly not at the moment. You have to at least wait until after you have finished your last year. I could be wrong, but it may well be that he cares for you just as much as you care for him, but it is going to be so much more difficult for him to first, come to terms with that fact, and second, admit it openly to you."_

_"I know that," I said in a whisper._

_Rising from her cross-legged position she settles herself next to me and gives me a quick, hard hug, only pausing to brush my hair away from her face as she once again begins to speak._

_"Well, if you know that, then it makes it all a lot easier, doesn't it? There are only a few months left before you are let loose upon the wizarding world, and if it all goes horribly wrong, which I don't think it will, you can go and fling yourself off a cliff, or live like my mad Great Aunt Maude: a hermit with only cats and a randy three-hundred-year-old portrait for company." _

_Giggling now, I ask her how she got to be so wise._

_She laughs and tells me that she must have got Ron's share as well as her own. _

_I decide that there is only one thing we can do in a situation like this: pizza, wine and ice cream. It's about time Ginny discovered the glory that is proper Italian meat and spinach pizza. There are some things the wizarding world doesn't do well, and one of them is most definitely pizza. _

_*************************************************************_

While pizza is certainly one of my preferred food groups, dilemmas are not my favourite dish.  I prefer cold, hard facts, and clearly defined ideas. When decisions have to be made, however, I don't usually procrastinate, even when they are difficult or confusing; clarity and conciseness (and often a list) assist me. 

However, there had been no books to help me then, as my heart spoke to me so loudly and persistently, that even my head couldn't really do anything but pin its ears back and listen. Listen it still does, even now, when he is so distant, both physically and, sadly, emotionally. While I had allowed my heart to overrule my head in the past, in this case, they needed to work in conjunction to drag me from the mire of my own creation. They had been successful co-workers in the past; there was no reason why that couldn't be repeated.       

My barriers had been necessary, and, looking back, I do think that we had already acknowledged, both to ourselves and probably each other, that once the war was over, nothing would stop us from pursuing feelings that were both intense, and already beginning to become crisply acute.  For as long as it was necessary, my internal ramparts accomplished their objective. Until that inevitable night, in the dark hours after the final scenes had been played out, when it had then been the time to perform our own little epilogue. 

For some reason, I had been alone in my room that evening. After my injuries had been cared for, we had gone and sat silently by the lake, as none of us had enough will, or strength, to talk. For over an hour Ron, Harry, and I had just held hands.  

We had come out alive, but deeply scarred emotionally, some more than others.  No one approached us; everyone seemed to appreciate our need for solitude from others, while still needing the closeness of our friendship. It had been the arrival of Molly, Arthur, and the remaining Weasley family that had shattered the stillness.  Harry and I had left them to feel the first waves of grief as a family, for, however close we were, sometimes blood needed blood. 

Impromptu celebrations had been organised by those who had no active involvement in the fighting. I had wanted to go, but I found that, while my feet were carrying me around my quarters, they didn't seem to want to take the trip down to the Great Hall. 

My hands had begun to undress me but had gotten no further than the gloves that had protected me from the cold earlier that day.  

In the Muggle world of my parents and my pre-magic days, you would say that I was on a high, euphoric, and I suppose that is what I would call it now, even though I had, for many reasons, decided to distance myself from some aspects of the other side of my inheritance. My motivations for this were not something that I wanted to gaze at too closely; at the moment I wanted, and needed, to confront another entirely different matter, before I attempted to resolve issues with my parents. 

I don't know why I looked up at the doorway at that exact moment. Perhaps some other more primitive instinct told me I was holding someone's attention, because no sound had reached my ears, and no scent had emerged to alert me to his presence. 

No words were spoken aloud, but they had been there all the same in the lock that bound our eyes upon those opposite. In that same instant, that, upon examination, read like the pages of one of Molly's sickly-sweet romance novels, we were able to acknowledge what was kept behind the barricades. And it was in that moment that the emotions broke the dam. 

It was a picture that words could not create a frame for.

After the passion had subsided to a subtle glow, I remember the very opposing feelings that had turned over in my mind, as we lay scrunched up on the single bed in my dorm room, occasionally glancing at the spread of clothing across the floor, but more often, at each other. Just listening to the sound of our breathing that night was a revelation, because there was an acute awareness that there were some people whose breath I would never hear again. Happiness, guilt, passion, and desolation are, separately, very powerful emotions, but experiencing them side-by-side seemed to tear at my insides.  

We didn't sleep that night; our thoughts had been shouting too loudly. 

Those hours had been the first among many rumblings of reflection, and my mind even now doesn't seem to want be silenced.  It was not, however, just a recital of battle scenes and skirmishes; there were also deeply private moments tucked in between the conflicts.  

While the noises from the victory revels travelled the large distance from the Great Hall, we indulged ourselves in this time alone.

His hands are, for some reason, distinctly embedded in my memory of that night. 

I had taken my own and meshed it with his much larger one.  For a long while I had let my fingers observe the gentle curves of his palm and the calluses from writing and wand use. It created a tingling sensation that rippled right down to the skin on my toes. 

Without having to glance upwards I knew he was watching me. It seemed as though we had our own extra way of communicating, in addition to the five senses we had already used. It isn't anything as highly developed as telepathy though. Some might have called it empathy, but I certainly cannot claim to know what he is feeling, particularly not after the situation that has brought me here, to this very different room.  I feel it is better explained as a higher awareness of each other, an affinity. Knowledge of when we are coming together in the same place, or when we are looking at the other person, and sometimes, if not evident in features or voice, a mood could sometimes be strong enough to leak out and fill the air around us.

If I had inclinations towards self-torture, I would remember how this extra sense had resulted in some very pleasant sensations, that weren't always contained within the walls of our bedroom. I would remember the earthy, musky smell that was evident the morning after his transformations, or the altogether different scent that pervaded the bed sheets, grass, carpet, or other surface, after we made love. Or I would remember the echo of a touch on my waist, the taste of him after the sweet popcorn we had shared, along with laughter, as we watched a rather hilarious wizarding film. 

But, as I said, I'm not into the deliberate self-infliction of pain. I have caused enough hurt for myself without feeling the necessity to create it intentionally.       

Words that night had been rare, but when we had spoken it was to touch upon the people lost; not those close to us, though, because it was still too immediate to openly accept their physical passing from our lives. It was usually about the overall cost of life that even then had seemed little more than platitudes, spoken to bring comfort.  

More welcome were the inevitable phrases that new lovers whisper softly to each other in quiet stillness, that night being voiced aloud for the first time. Thoughts, for that night at least, were allowed to bypass more far-reaching concerns.

It wasn't until the following days, weeks and months that the full reckoning began to be counted; events had passed that both the magical and non-magical worlds should be made to remember. 

In the initial aftermath, meaningless protestations were made that this should and would not ever happen again. 

What I mean by such harsh words is that initial reactions are forgotten over time, when the distance causes the memories of pain and suffering to be dulled. Grief, while not disappearing, gets easier to bear, and therefore less prominent in our minds; the same can be said about war. 

Many, not just those among our group, planned to force the wizarding world to see that changes needed to be brought about; not just for the good of certain areas of society, but also to show gratitude towards what some call 'half-breeds' and 'dark creatures'. Those who had helped us win the war were not the only ones who should benefit though; it wasn't a question of rewards for loyalty. Equality and knowledge was the key to winning this very different conflict.     

After the collective issues of the capture of the remaining Death Eaters, the reorganisation of the Ministry of Magic, and the beginning of the acknowledgment that the attitudes and discriminatory inclinations towards many communities within the wizarding and non- magical world needed to be addressed, we all inevitably began to look closer to home. 

Later, our individual issues would take their own place in our minds; whether it was coming to terms with each of our own personal bereavements, the shifting of our priorities, or the discovery of the fragility of life, everyone had questions that they were trying to solve.  I say solve not solved because nothing in life is ever certain, and even death isn't as final as I once had thought.  

That first night, Remus had told me when he began to realise that he regarded me as more than a diligent pupil and respected friend. He spoke little at that point of the internal conflict he had undergone about the morality of his emotions, and what had driven him to take the trip that night to the rooms reserved for the Head Girl. 

Another, altogether different, evening, about one month later, we had talked long into the night about both his and my struggles with our feelings for each other and the obvious issues surrounding it. Both of us realised that there would be varying reactions when we disclosed our relationship beyond our own ears. I know he was especially concerned about the effects it might have on the way people would behave towards me, and the very real possibility of negative consequences in the world outside our family and friends.

While we had, to some degree, debated the responses that we would receive from particular people, others' reactions had been like our own news: a complete bombshell. Harry's reaction was something neither of us had expected to be so verbally aggressive. 

Some reactions, however, had been as expected, my parents being the case in point. They didn't fully comprehend the world I had been adopted into. I discovered surprisingly that the more important issue for them wasn't the fact that he was a werewolf; it was more the disparity of our ages and the reality that he had been my teacher. I suppose those were things they had read about happening, and they could therefore comprehend them far more easily than the fact that, under a full moon, my boyfriend transforms into an animal with fur, four legs, and a tail.

Some might class our relationship as unconventional and not very politically correct, (we had individually acknowledged that fact before it had even begun,) but with the positive effect the aftermath of the war was having on the wizarding world, we had hoped for a little more understanding from certain people whom we considered friends. 

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Please read and review, this is the only form of payment I will get.

Coming in the next chapter: We learn more about where Hermione has been the past few months, and also about her relationship with Remus. Hermione gets a very unexpected visitor!


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer:- See Chapter One.

Please read and Review, it is the only form of payment I get. It also gives me the encouragment and courage to continue writing this story.

* * *

Putting down the same quill nearly a week later, I sigh loudly enough to break the silence. Not being one to set aside difficult tasks, I had thus far managed to throw many thwarted attempts at a letter into the fire over the past week. The decision to transfer the thoughts from my head into a visible reality had been inevitable. It had, however,taken me a number of months to even get to the stage where I could consider sitting down upon the brown leather-backed chair, (a chair that distinctly reminded me of the one in the staff room at Hogwarts, where the intended recipient of my letter would probably now be sitting,) and compose my thoughts into a coherent form.

After I had Apparated out of Hogwarts, my dayshad been spent inside a single room, (in a bed and breakfast,) in one of the many faceless and indistinguishable seaside resorts. When I had finally managed to open the curtains and let the sunlight in,I had then rented a little flat with the money I had saved while working.

That flat had been where my summer months had been spent so differently from my previous one, where days had been plump and bursting with long conversations, and with as much happiness crammed inside them as was possible. Impromptu visits to the beach near our house had been taken, when the benevolent sun spread its rays and chased the clouds away. My favourite days, though, had been the simple ones spent in our garden, where a good book turned the sky to night with the flick of the pages.

This year, however, all I had wanted to do was escape from myself, because that happiness had been extinguished so rapidly. My lonely residence had been small, consisting of four rooms with a shared terrace garden that opened out onto a sometimes-windy, Welsh seafront. A view which had been my almost constant companion for many hours over the following days and weeks, something that had allowed me to unreservedly wallow in my sorrow, and regurgitate that fateful day repeatedly.

Wales hadn't been a completely conscious destination, but for some reason that seafront had appeared in my mind as a refuge. Until I had arrived in that particular village on its north coast,I hadn't understood the underlying reason for taking myself there. When I had been younger, and my parents' dental practise was still in it's fledgling years, holidays had consisted of cheap and simple family time spent in our own country. One such week I had enjoyed more than all the others was in my eighth year, spent in the very same town I had fled to this past summer. Looking back, I remember that holiday being one of my happiest and most memorable, mainly because my parents had been unreservedly contented as well. There had only been a small amount of money in the family budgetfor paid entertainment, and meals out. For me this had been a bonus, because it meant we spent time together without distractions.

I had rejoiced in the dinners we had eaten on the neatly laid table that rocked on the flag stone floor of the kitchen, rejoiced that my Dad still thought he could convince me to eat my potatoes by informing me that the centre was laden with white chocolate. A quite disgusting thought in reality, much like the battered Mars Bars that he bought from 'The Oceanic', a fish and chip shop on the corner of the street that gave shelter to our holiday cottage. My dad had delighted in the coarse texture of the coating that was smoothed by the rich filling of nougat and chocolate. My Mom, and in turn myself, gave him a reassuring smile and discreetly disposed of his offering in the nearby bin. Luckily, he was none the wiser, and even now, he fondly recalls our first family battered-chocolate-bar experience. To this day, I have never had the heart to dissuade him from the notion that we hadn't actually liked the oxymoron of two opposing food groups.

Nestled near the village, we had found little shallows, whose margins were protected by the smooth-skinned rocks that with every outgoing tide kept a reserve of water and became the home for small sea creatures and, sometimes, fish. Armed with our small nets and buckets, we had mercilessly set out to recover those animals the sea had misplaced. Our first and second foray had been uneventful, but still enjoyable. The third,however,had been much more exciting for some of us. My Dad hadn't noticed the still-slimy rocks, and perhaps he had also over-anticipated his aptitude for balancing. The result had been an undesired trip, at least for him, into the cold and brine-based home of the starfish and crabs.Both Mom's and my own laughter had followed him along the half-mile of beach and subsequent pebble pathway to the car. We had found countless opportunities to remind him of the incident over the proceeding days of our holiday. Over the following years it had become a legend in our small family and the source of much laughter at my parents' frequent dinner parties.

_My dad had fallen in the rock pool; it was very funny, although I don't think that he sees it like that. My mom is laughing her socks off as we listen to his grumbling while making the long trip back to the car._

_"If you had to walk in these jeans, little miss_,_ you wouldn't be giggling like that. Come here, you rascal!" my dad shouted as he started to chase me along the path. _

_This only caused me to laugh louder and soon we found ourselves worn out, wet and back at the small car park, whose only other occupant was a lonely wooden rowing boat that had seen better days._

_"We didn't bring a change of clothes, did we? I suppose the car seats will have to get as wet as me then. Hermione, come on, stop messing with that stick and get in the car; some of us want to go home and get dry," my Dad said. He always knows the exact tone of voice that would make mefollow his instructions. _

Even now, in my mind's eye,I can conjure up the squelch of his boots as we made our way along the gravel track. How he had flapped his arms wildly like a mad goose when he had ran after me along the pathway. Water had trickled down his nose and added to the copious amounts already sitting on his thick woollen jumper and blue jeans. I also remember with affection the grin he was attempting to stop from creating a deep fissure in his face.

We had, for that short period, been, more than any other time, what I believed a real family should be; surrounded with warmth, laughter, and a good dollop of hugs and kisses. Of course, now I'm older, reality has explained to me that perfection is a bubble that is continuously being burst, no matter how hard you try to keep it away from sharp objects. The thread on my particular pin had revolved around my obsession with attaining a perfect relationship, and an idyllic family life. The latter, being something, which, I had started to create secretly since that week in Wales. Looking back a few years later, the storybook and television translations of home, love, and intimacy had seemed for a short while a reality that was achievable.

My time spent with the Weasleys had added to the daydream and utopian idealism of family life. Arthur and Molly's marriage had seemed to exude so much more affection and understanding than my parents' example. It wasn't the magical aspect that was the only thing lacking from my own home life though. There seemed to be a permanent chill in the air ever since my parents lost my sister, Beatrice. From that day forward, they had concentrated all their efforts on building a successful business,rather than their previous desire of a happy family with three or four children spaced out across six or seven years.

On one of my last visits to see them, I had been left one night alone while they attended a social function, to which I had not been invited. I had not intended to snoop around my childhood home,but it had an almost alien quality to it that invited investigation. After an hour of misdirection and rummaging, I had found in a corner cupboard in the room reserved for Beatrice, a sequined shoebox. Secured by pink ribbon and a butterfly broach, inside had lain secrets that my eyes were not meant to see.

Any sentimentality my Mother had once held had been relinquished. With that change of direction, the rectangular box that echoed back to a time when she had ideas beyond dentistry, and the battle to be evermore successful had been left to stagnate, to remain alone in a room where time's graces hadn't appeared to pass.

I, of course, had known of Beatrice, but I had that night learnt about Benadict, or Isabella, and Holly who was going to have been our terrier dog. In that little square container had been a plan; written by my Mother, it was a list of all the things they had wanted in their lives. Now though, all these other wishes and hopes had been left to waste in that box. I discovered that it was never intended for me to be an only child. It seemed, however, that the loss of my little sister, whose eyes had never seen beyond the cocoon of the womb, had created a tear that would forever remain visibly patched. We had never, as a family, or individuals, discussed the repercussions that her passing had provoked. It seemed as if, as best as was humanly possible, all remains of Beatrice had been scraped away with the same precision thatthey routinely applied to the plaque on their patients' less-than-white teeth. All that was left was a reflective stone marker in the ground, and a few meaningful words cursively placed in a book, with little value, or relevance to anyone but those who paid for them to be there.

The tapping of hail on the window brings my thoughts forward. That day was when I had heard the owl rapping its beak on the glass whose frame sat above my kitchen sink, in that rather lonely summer residence by the sea. It welcomed a view that made me settle my gaze out of it's contemporary in the front room. The morning had signalled the last day of July, and after slowly realising why she was requesting to be let in, I had briefly considered bolting the window, and leaving the blinds in the closed position. For a while, it had seemed easier to allow myself the seeming luxury of letting the current wash me away from the magical world, and leave me to find another port to berth in. It suddenly seemed so much simpler than facing the situation I found myself in. A problem that was something akin to the aftermath of a head on collision with a very large brick wall, the wreckage was not limited to just the two of us. Piecing it back together would prove to be something that even now I wasn't positive I could achieve. One thing I'm certain about now though, is that I was lucky that the unexpected bird could fly better than I could, and that some aspects of my nature hadn't been completely dulled.

Common sense and my very strong streak of curiosity had drawn the trump card, and soonthe moody barn owl was drinking from a chipped saucer that seemed as old as the building with which it had been rented. There had been a last minute cancellation, and I had been lucky enough to get a furnished flat in the peak summer season. The neat Victorian façade, had hidden high ceilings, and draughty rooms, whose windows I had been forced to charm against the sweeping sea air. Inside the post pouch was the situations vacant section from the Daily Prophet, along with the very obviously glowingadvertisements that had inveigled themselves into the international section. I never did learn how it had come to pass that I received that particular issue, because none had found me previous to that day. The beaming announcements were the magical alternative to the edging and colours added to highlight sections in the Muggle papers I had been reading over the previous weeks.

Returning to the Muggle world wasn't something that would prove easy to undertake successfully, as the qualifications needed to attain a position in a mainstream school in my old world were something that I didn't have. Magical examination results were not meant, or made to be transferable to the outside world, and I had discovered that I would have to attend a University, gain a degree and something called a P.G.C.E to be able to continue in my current profession. I didn't want to spend the next four years trying to achieve them,and if I were being honest with myself, my previous inclination and passion for learning were thingsthat had apparently gone absent without leave. If I were to sail my ship on that particular course,it would have been without any visible landmarks to assist my lack of compass and, would have been companioned alongside the high probability of jagged rocks, deadly sea monsters, and, with my current luck, probably the wrath of Poseidon himself.

No, it seemed the only solution was to take the opportunity the owl afforded and send my _Magical Minutiae_, or as my Mom would have stated my Curriculum Vitae out to the most appealing and appropriate candidates. As I browsed the salt-seasoned paper, my eyes had been drawn towards a small but rather well put together trailer. I say 'trailer' in the literal sense, as the teaching establishment had included a wizarding slide show alongside their main advert. They were similar to the moving photographs that I had first seen what now seemed so many years ago.The effect created could be compared to a promotional video, and that is the only way a non-magical person could comprehend this altogether different media presentation.

The New CanadianNew Canadian Academy of Magic and Sorcery,, masqueradedas a small addition to the landscape about thirty miles east of Edmonton, the provincial capital of Alberta, Canada. Although it was closer to the town of Fort Saskatchewan, somewhere you didn't want to have to get back to if you were inebriated, as a colleague and I had the misfortune to discover. It is something to note that until I had come to Canada, I hadn't had much experience of hard liquor, and to be honest I don't think it is something that is going to be a frequent occurrence.

Manassah Sanford was a wizard of indeterminable years; he was also the headmaster of the only magical educational facility in Canada, which meant he presided over a large number of pupils and staff. Interviewing with Professor Sanford was accomplished by Repli-Kate Communicator, which was much more comfortable, practical, and appealing than lodging your head in a grate for a long period of time. It was, however, outrageously more expensive, and when international rates were taken into consideration, I was glad to say that the connection expenses had not been billed to _my _Gringotts account.

The blending of faculty members was altogether different from those at Hogwarts, as there was a much stronger contingent of International magical professors and staff members. This could be attributed to many things: the size of the school, a more open and worldly curriculum and the fact that linguistics was taught as a separate subject. Prominent wizarding languages such as _Marlin Elementum,_ and the _Veneficus Lingua _were taught alongside French, German, Japanese, and Italian, allowing for a more global and less insular environment than Hogwarts.

Working in Canada had opened my eyes to a much more expansive magical society than I had previously considered, and I had somewhat unwillingly realised that my regard for my old school wasn't necessarily echoed by everyone. Headmaster Sanford had indicated to me that my lack of languages, and the old-fashioned approach to teaching that was employed at Hogwarts, might well cause me difficulties in adapting to his work and learning ethics. In balance,****though,he added that adherence to tradition wasn't always a bad thing, and the fact that he held Albus Dumbledore in high esteem meant that anyone who had him as a reference deserved a trial period at (name of school).

So that had been the turning point. The official documents sealing the temporary appointment had been witnessed on my arrival. After the initial trial period, a _Canonicus Tabellue_ _Proprius Positus_ (a legal document of permanent position that had to be administrated be the _Notatrius_, the legal scribe,)would be authorized. It would only be signed if the intention were on both sides that I should stay. On that first day, and still to this very hour_,_ I cannot honestly say which way my state of mind will take me,or if it will even be my brain doing the deciding.

Glancing up at the maple leaf-shaped clock, I consider that Menassah's seeming modernity didn't completely lack the odd traditional or perhaps national reference. His occasional gentle humming of 'Oh, Canada' at inappropriate times was a rather moot point with many of the staff. Noticing the position of the timepiece's hands and the fact that the drumbeat inside my stomach was not lessening by evasion, I decided to stop my wool-gathering and take a much-needed trip to the staff kitchens.

As a new resident and probationary professor, my apartments lacked the luxury of an adjoining kitchen, something that only the longstanding staff members were afforded. So, I had to either eat with the pupils and other faculty members, who like myself lacked cooking facilities, or take the now more frequent occurrence of an after hours excursion to eat whatever was left over from the evening meal. Moving away from my desk, I retrieve my wand, and head towards the door of the chamber that I have lived in for the past few months. I realised that it was nearing the time to firmly decide if my life was to turn towards this brave new land permanently. The headmaster had indicated that apart from my tendency to sometimes close myself off from others and retreat to my chambers, he had no complaints about my professional abilities. He belatedly added that I had adapted much quicker than he had anticipated, and that the only thing left to decide was whether I myself wished to stay on his staff, or return to the position he knew was still open for me at Hogwarts.

I don't know how well acquainted he was with my situation, or my reasons for landing at his school, but he seemed to know more than I had told him. Being a diplomatic man, however, he had mastered the fine art of negotiation and applied wisdom. He usually seemed to know what needed to be left unspoken. I briefly wondered if this was a requirement for being a Headmaster; Albus Dumbledore always appeared to know much more than he ever disclosed, and most of the time, apart from being annoyingly enigmatic, was relatively tactful.

My quarters here weren't anywhere near as splendid as those I had inhabited in my tenure as Head Girl, or as cosy and intimately loving as my last apartment at Hogwarts. I had however, tried to stamp my presence upon its cold, monumental, stone walls and thin, arched windows. With the fire flaming as it did now, it at least felt warm. I haven't got many highly personal possessions, as I prefer to have people as friends rather than objects, but I do have a few special items that would cause me injury to part with. Sentimentality, to some measure it seems, does get the better of all of us, and I was no exception; it may well be that, along with memories, these trifles were all I had left of my former existence.

Aside from the obvious photo albums and letters that help me hold those recollections close, was the graduation present my parents had gifted me: a traditionally produced and hand-woven throw from South America.

Apparently these textiles all tell a story that only a few people can now still decipher, a number that is depleting as the years are drawn along. Sadly, the only thing my parents forgot was a translation of the cloth. I comforted myself with the possibility that perhaps they wanted to provoke my curiosity, or in their simple way tell me that we don't have to know everything about a thing to appreciate it. If I were being brutally honest, I would say that they never really considered that the whole beauty lay inside its threads. I could never fully appreciate it just for its aesthetic qualities; I needed to know what lay hidden within its weave. That, I believe, stands as a testament to how they now know so little about my personality, my insecurities, or me. Maybe I was just over-analysing a gift that was not really meant to mean anything; it wouldn't be the first time my complete and almost medically precise dissections had left me emotionally wounded. Sometimes an object just _is_, existing without any alternative motivations or secret agendas.

A small number of other gifts and items occupied the room with me, but the one that had the most sentimental value was the first Christmas present that Remus had given me. I hadn't really considered him to be someone who gave indiscriminately or without due consideration, but that year his gift had displayed to me his own, often camouflaged, talent for sentimentality. It had embarrassingly brought tears to my eyes then, and even occasionally did now when I was in a particularly maudlin mood, something that over the past few weeks had been occurring much more frequently than before. The night I had run away, I hadn't had the mental resources to pack much in the way of personal belongings.

Mainly collecting a few items of clothing, essentials like a little money, my Muggle credit card (something I always kept in case of emergency's, when I wouldn't get the chance to exchange money), legal documents, passports and all the practical things I would need. It seemed even when I was in emotional turmoil, my mind had the attributes of a heat seeking missile where necessities were concerned. Then, just as I took my wand to perform the reducing spell, my heart had for a moment stopped me; it told me to walk over to the bookshelf and liberate my photo album. It didn't fall silent then, however, it told me to return to the bedroom, where so much passion and pleasure had been given life, and transplant that Christmas gift from its home and place it in my closed but still unlocked case. That final action seemed to sear itself onto the underside of my eyelids, appearing every time I closed my eyes. It was just one of the many reasons why my sleep was now so disturbed and disrupted.

A very different form of daytime disturbance was now making her way down the corridor towards me.

"Hello Hermione. Your stomach finally got the better of you, hmm?" Came a booming voice that not unwelcomely started me out of my reverie.

Wilhemina Westenbrook was a lively seventy-year-old, whose native land was America, but, as she had said the first time we were introduced, she couldn't stand those stuck-up, snobs at the Salem Institute. The Salem Institute snobs had forced her away from her homeland, and happily she took up residence here, where she began teaching nearly thirty years ago. Wilhemina tended to take most people under her rather large arms; if she were of a very different frame you could say they were akin to angel's wings. Mina, as she preferred to be called, however, was asfar from the stereotypical angel as you could get. Unless of course, you had a fondness for middle-aged cherubs with feathery top lips.

Mina reminded me a little of a larger and older version of Mrs Weasley. If you were being kind, she exuded motherly concern and warmth, but if you weren't, she was just a big old gossip. Whichever frame of mind you were inclined towards,her perfume always had an unerring allegiance towards roses and was always worn in excessive amounts. The fragrance was the product of her own cauldron, and the resulting effect was a persisting aroma that permeated her chambers, and leaked down the stairwell into the adjoining office like Muggle potpourri, something my mom had a passion for, and I had a strong aversion to. It had always meant she was having important people around, people whom she wanted to impress, though why dried up bits of flowers should do that, I don't really know. I had been forced to attend for the eating part of the evenings, polite conversation was always exchanged, and feigned interest was offered in the fiction that was my private boarding school. My parent's story included a prestigious, highly exclusive, and very expensive boarding school.

They hadn't always been so preoccupied with appearances, but events had steered them not too gently down that path, and it had led to the breakdown of intimacy between us. Mina, however, seemed oblivious to the different effects her perfume had on her two nearest neighbours. Angelo De Luca and Jaegar Bauer had very opposing opinions on the odour that wafted around her rooms, and seemed to seep into their adjoining ones. Angelo was housed to the left of Mina and Jaegar took the right flank. While Wilhemina herself let it be widely known that she enjoyed the fact that she was sandwiched between two such attractive men, they did not employ the same viewpoint. Jaegar was, as his name suggests, a hunter.He was a tall, charismatic, and strong–minded German who,while not having the fine features of Angelo, could still attract women as well as any veela could men. There was an aura about him that was indefinable, but it was raw, immediate and obviously effective. The problem for them, but obviously not for him, was that he knew his prey well, and just how to play them until they sung like a bird performing its dying swansong. It is said that a birds sweetest song is the last melody it performs before it dies, thankfully I can't carry a tune at the best of times, let alone when I'm about to die!

With Angelo, it was his features rather than personality that made women fall over themselves to date him. It was, however, all in vain because Angelo didn't exactly regard women in quite the same way as his colleague. One of the truest phrases I have ever heard is that there are a higher percentage of attractive men in Italy than almost any other country. I could attest to that fact from my holidays spent in that land of olive groves, lemon trees and a rather attractive waiter called Carlo. In all honesty, Angelo didn't deviate from this statement in any discernable way. Italian Stallion he might well be, but his preference wasn't for mares; he enjoyed femininity. You could say he embraced it. Some who were not as tolerant as others said he embraced it just a little too much." Each to their own" is the stance I have always taken in these matters. His particular direction of fancy in the short time I had known him was aggressively towards Jaegar, a fact he announced to me fairly regularly in the many times we came across each other in the kitchens.

What were their conflicting judgments on the homemade Rose Essence Perfume? Well Angelo loved it, and Professor Bauer could be heard to mutter, after a particularly pungent episode, statements like: "Does she actually think any man wants to have the cloying smell of roses under his nose?" or "One day I'm going to destroy all the rose bushes. Just because I teach High Magical Arts doesn't mean I can't brew a simple poison." Several that were much more common, however, were, _'Dumme Weib'_ and _'Rosen,__ denkt sie __sich bloss dabei?_

It's probably a good thing that Mina doesn't understand a word of German,because as Angelo had told me, that remark would probably hurt her often-sensitive feelings. This thought returns my attention to the not-too-svelte witch in front of me.

"You've caught me again Mina. I got distracted. You know how it is with all this marking for the end-of-term exams," I reply.

Unrealistically, I hoped this would keep her off the scent. Many would say she was akin to a dog with a bone in her ability to sniff out a bit of scandal or gossip. I say she reminds me of just a slightly more-scrupled Rita Skeeter on the trail of a burning hot story. Mina follows the adage 'where there's smoke, there's fire', which, in her terms translates to, 'I'll create the smoke and stoke the fire furiously myself.' It was, thankfully,mainly harmless and not as intentionally damaging, defamatory, or overtly malicious as little Miss Beetle's articles.

"That's a fib if ever I heard one,"she answers_. "_More than likely it's your young man that you've been writing to." Adding insult to injury,she persisted in pushing the point. I felt like I was going to melt on the spot.

"I've been marking, Mina. I also wanted to get the reports written before the Christmas holidays," I replied.

"I still say it's better to speak face to face rather than owl to owl. Don't know why you don't want to see him either. I wouldn't mind having a handsome face like that to wake up to during my Christmas Vacation," she said with more than a slight smile.

Noticing the effect this remark had on the colour of my cheeks, she just chuckled and told me to hurry on down to the kitchens before I caught my death from cold, joking that she knew something that would warm me up to no end. I don't believe she was referring to the vegetable soup that I ate most nights, with bread still warm from their rest in the ovens, either. It didn't occur to me to wonder, until after I had heard her navy court shoes resonate around the corner, leaving only her sickly sweet perfume flittering around my nose, as to how she knew about Remus. Secondly,where exactly had she seen a picture of him? As far as I knew, the only one available within the walls of this establishment was in my private quarters.

While she did, on occasion,appear unexpectedly within my chambers with what can only be described as sometimes rather skeletal and dubious reasons, I had never considered that she would breech my privacy so unscrupulously. I mentally put that thought onto a shelf which was only a little below eye level, keeping it within easy reach and readily available for further consideration. I had other more pressing matters to examine at the moment. Hopefully there was some soup that would warm me as much as Wilhemina's remarks had so that my stomach could stop feeling like a herd of Blast-Ended Skrewitts were in rampaging residence, doing just as their name implied.

Thanking Slinky, the house-elf, I settled down on the high-backed chair that was perpetually warmed by its proximity to Enrica, the large 'ever-burning' stove. Apparently when the school administration had tried to modernise the kitchen equipment, making the house-elves' lives easier, they had protested and said they were quite happy as things were. So the one-hundred-year- old cantankerous oven stayed were she was, her spluttering and moaning pipes all part of the appeal. At least to the manyhouse-elves, who didn't seem perturbed by her at all. Perhaps because she was the source of endless humour for them? I have discovered at my own expense that Canadian house-elves seem to like the idea of practical jokes.

I had come to the conclusion that, while the house-elves were slightly more forward here, they still protested at any mention of wages and freedom. The liberation of the house-elves had taken a backseat since the last year of the war. Dobby had seemed to miss the never-ending supply of socks though.

With current events as they were, I didn't feel the inclination to start any sort of campaign for creatures that, in their own words, had no personal desire to improve their situation. There were people, Remus being one of them, who held a deep-seated aspiration to affect change in not just their own lives, but for many who were the victims of prejudice and cruelty. Years of misunderstanding, misjudgement, and misdirection were only a few of the things that needed to be altered.

Just before leaving, I had been helping Remus to review the werewolf legislation and to evaluate the positions within it that needed to be changed. It had been the beginning of a plan to appeal a high majority of laws within many documents that, whether intentional or not, promoted bigotry and social exclusion.

Smiling to myself, my thoughts lead me back to Mina. I acknowledged that, while she meant well, she didn't really understand the situation. However much I had developed a liking for her_,_ it was more like my relationship with overripe cheese:slightly too mature and smelly for everyday use. She would never be someone I would confide in; that was where she differed from Molly. Molly Weasley had experienced her own share of problems, heartbreak, and happiness, and she also nearly always gave good advice; if you could get past the side of her that wanted to mother you to death that is!

There were situations that I found my own mother had either been unable or unwilling to understand. That was how I had found myself turning to Molly more and more for the advice that was not forthcoming from my own mother. Over the past few years, it had been something that was a comfort to us both, as Molly no longer had Ginny to mother, and after her death I didn't have a female friend I felt at ease confiding in. I liked to think that Ginny herself would be glad of the fact we had turned to the other for support and consolation. When I remember my friend, I can't help but conjure up her first proper, full-blown exposure to the Muggle world.

_"What exactly are these for? They look like somethingfrom Professor Snape's store-room."_

_"And what exactly was Ginny Weasley doing in Snape's private rooms? Is there something you want to discuss with me?" I replied, glancing across to see what she had in her hands._

_Ginny had been allowed to come with me to visit my parents this summer, and I was glad of the respite it would give me from their constant questions about what I was going to do when I left Hogwarts. Voldemort was something that we hadn't really discussed. I should probably say hadn't been allowed too; the Latito-imperceptus Charm not only concealed, but also stopped the disclosure of information about the war, to the parents of magical children._

_ There was a department in the Ministry of Magic devoted to Muggle parents, guardians, and friends. It included the protection of information, which was deemed sensitive, inflammatory, or dangerous. They were also in charge of pamphlet production for acclimatisation to the magical world. My own parents had received such offerings as 'So your child is a witch/wizard', or 'where and how to get those essential school supplies', and my favourite- 'How to keep the truth from friends, family and neighbours: our ten-point plan'. My parents had followed those ten little 'rules' to the letter; sometimes I think that they wish they didn't have to know themselves._

_"No, nothing! Get your mind out of the gutter, Hermione," sighed Ginny in exasperation._

_I looked pointedly at her and she sighed again, this time in defeat. "I was…sort of… borrowing some stuff from him," she said with obvious evasion._

_"Borrowing stuff, from Snape?" I queried, not exactly believing her explanation._

_Putting the offending object down, she turned away from her reflection and, smiling, she let the light that had been absent the last few months flicker in her eyes for a second. It was a grin I recognise well, from herself, her brothers, and sometimes Mr Weasley. Ginny had not been short-changed in regards to the joking gene; she just applied her not inconsiderable intellect well, and not as frequently as her twin brothers. George and Fred have had, on the occasions they discovered the true culprit behind the pranks they got detentions for, admitted begrudgingly, that she had often outsmarted them._

_"This doesn't have anything to do with the incident at the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match would it?" I could see that my comment made it hard for her to keep control of the giggle that was emanating from her chest._

_"It might have…. Oh, ok you probably guessed by now it was me. I needed some Abyssinian Shrivelfig, and Harry said he had seen some in Snape's store--he had to clean it out for his last detention." She was stopped when my pig- squeal shout interrupted her explanation._

_"Harry told you?" I clarified unnecessarily._

__

_"Well, all the pranks his dad took part in must have rubbed off on him more than we thought. Anyway, we used his cloak, and borrowed some from Professor Snape's private cupboard. I had a hard time getting around his alarms and wards though. But then, I expected a high level of paranoia from Snape. He didn't even miss the tiny amount we took; peeling it was the much harder part. Do you know how bad that thing smells?" At this point she giggled and brushed her hair behind her ear in a flurry of movement and continued with her explanation._

_"It was alright until he realised what potion had been used on the Slytherin goalposts! The Alihosty was Harry's idea, and it was he who managed to smear the potion over the bludgers before the match. It took a while for it to sink in; that's why it didn't start as soon as they came out the box. "_

_To say I was shocked was a word that only loosely described the picture my face must have presented to Ginny._

_"That was you and Harry! Fred and George got the blame for that! They had to do a month of detentions with Snape. Did they ever find out it was you and Harry?"_

_" Yeah, but they didn't say anything except that it was definitely up to their standards; they haven't tried to prank me again." She was obviously thinking of something funny because that sweet little giggle decided to show its face again._

_"I don't think I will ever forget the look on Snape's face as the Slytherin goalposts shrank every time they tried to score a goal, and then, when the bludgers started wailing like babies; there was a dry eye in the stands. Lee Jordan's commentary was spot on that day; do you remember when he announced that Snape's face looked like he had been sucking a Weasley's 'shock me they're sour' lemon drop?"_

_I remember seeing McGonagall wryly smiling, which wasn't really all that surprising, given the friction between the two Heads of House over that particular sport. A second glance was needed to check if it was actually the stern face of the Muggle Studies Professor, I saw laughing so hard that it had caused Pomfrey to ask him if he was feeling all right. _

_ Turning once more to the dressing table, she picked up the silver-coloured implement off the glass top and waved them in front of my face._

_"So, what are these dangerous looking things?"_

_Giggling myself, I told her what they were, and what she was supposed to do with them._

_"You mean I actually have to put that thing near my eye? I do value my sight quite highly you know, Hermione." Ginny's expression did nothing to betray the fact that she was regarding the article as if it were an item about to inflict serious pain on her person._

_"They're eyelash curlers Ginny, not a medieval torture device."_

_"Well, they look highly suspicious to me!"_

_ I decided the easiest thing would be to show her exactly how they worked. Heaven knows what she will say when she sees my hair tongs, or some of the clothes I intend on making her wear tonight!_

That week had been one that I will always regard with much affection. Ginny and I had never before, or after, laughed so much together over such silly things. Her discovery of many of the wacky, weird, and wonderful Muggle articles that I had taken for granted, until arriving full force in the magical world that first day on the train, had been a great experience for both of us. The best had to be the second day when we decided to go shopping for what she called 'Muggle camouflage', it makes me chuckle even when I am in one of my more despondent moods. Thoughts of that event, however, would have to wait until I was in the mood to sift through, and experience the bitter taste of those poignant memories. Her passing had changed Molly and me; after all,her only daughter had not been the only person she had lost. What it didn't mean,however,was that it would be the last we would see orhear of her. She had been known to pop up in the most unusual places.

Taking my last bite of bread, I hear a chuckle fill the air, it seems as if a photo has just appeared in front of my eyes. One that harkens back to my first attempts at baking bread. Which for some ridiculous reason, I had decided to cook the Muggle way.

_Delia Smith, the lady whose cookbooks the Muggle shop-assistant had sworn by, smiled at me from the front of her pristine cover. Which wasn't at all surprising, as I had only purchased her a few hours ago, and hadn't as yet been given any reason to curse her into oblivion. Mum was not what you would call a homemaker, and I can't say that it has ever really been something that until this point had appealed to me. And as such, cookery lessons were not one of the things I had learnt at her knee. Molly had attempted to instil the basic rudiments of cooking into Ginny and me one summer holiday, but I didn't really want to use baking enchantments if I could help it. I was trying to prove that I was more than my magical abilities. Although, I would definitely be the first to say that those particular charms were not my forte. _

_Trying to identify why exactly my cooker was knocking and shaking when all the added magical enhancements had been removed wasn't going to make me Brain of Britain, but it had piqued my curiosity. As I opened the oven door, a rather disgruntled face stared back at me._

_"Well at least it doesn't matter to you that it was turned on," I remarked rather randomly, probably because of the shock of finding her there in the first place._

_"Ginny what on earth are you doing in there?" were the words that followed that rather vague opening statement and the first sensible ones after the initial stunning effect of discovering her seemingly dismembered head in my electric oven._

_"I don't think I've quite got the hang of this manifestation malarkey yet. Sirius says it takes a bit of getting used to. Not that he will be doing it any time soon, so I really don't think he can talk. Alright, Black, you can stop laughing now and bugger off." She now rather disjointedly detangled her head from the racks, and stretched her limbs much like Crookshanks did in__front of the fire._

_"Sirius is here?" I queried. Remus would love to speak with him, I thought._

_"Yeah, he's lurking around just to annoy me, probably thinks he can get some dirt on me or something. Fat chance of that, I SAID FAT CHANCE OF THAT, now just piss off, before I tell Hermione about that incident with the Irish Wolfhound you swore me to secrecy about."_

_"Erm Ginny, how, I mean why, can he, why me?_

_"Not as articulate as usual, eh, Hermione?"_

_Well it isn't every day my dead friend's head decides my oven is a nice place for elevenses!_

_"Sorry about that, didn't mean to startle you. I was aiming for the worktop, but I must have messed up my lights or something."_

_Could she read my mind now as well?_

_"Yes, cool isn't it?"_

_ That's not exactly how I would have described it; the idea of Ginny Weasley inside my brain was rather frightening. There are some things even a best friend shouldn't know. It didn't really bear thinking about._

__

_Giggling wickedly, she takes the seat Remus routinely sits in to have his morning coffee, settles herself down into the cushions, and begins to look at the book that I'd been studying a moment ago. Her failed attempts at turning the page, which caused her great frustration, was, to me, highly amusing; the sight of her fingers passing through the paper as if it were water brought a wide smile to my face. _

_Finally giving up, she allows me to turn the page for her and begins to peruse the Delia Smith masterpiece. After about five minutes she very nonchalantly says, " Surprised me too. Never knew you had it in you. Who'd've thought it, innocent little Miss Granger doing something that even made my friend Sirius Black blush"_

_Oh my God, Ginny and Sirius on their own would have been bad enough, but the thought of what they get up to together makes me shudder mentally. __And here I thought death was peace!_ _The female in question had now, however, begun to read aloud from the open book resting on the table. Placing the flour, salt, and other instructed ingredients into the bowl, I wasn't really concentrating on how much flour was escaping the bag, and drifting upwards before being trapped in my hair. _

_"Next, knead for ten minutes, then place in a covered bowl and leave in a warm place for one hour." _

_All the weighing and stirring seemed a bit like potions to me. Although the image of Snape with his hands covered in flour, manipulating the dough, filled us both with horror, and conjured up yet another snigger. _

_I wasn't totally inept, but come on--how does one knead a lump of dough for ten minutes straight without some sort of electrical device? Despite the fact that it made my wrists ache, it was good for relieving tension, and as I pounded the offending mass on the lightly floured surface, I wondered why I had never tried this before. _

_"I think that if I were Snape, I would be very afraid-the man who survived the Death Eaters only to be now kneaded to death by Hermione Granger! What was that…? Oh, I think Sirius would prefer it if it were his head on that table "_

_ I don't know why, if he were hanging around, Sirius couldn't just show himself instead of passing sly comments on to Ginny. I got my reply, once again to something I hadn't spoken aloud. _

_"He can't. You know, expose himself. Something, which he told me, is a great loss to all women, but I'm not so sure about that one myself! It's got something to do with the way he died, the fact he went through the veil. He doesn't get the option like I did. It was all explained to me, I get the choice: ' to haunt 'or 'not to haunt' that is the question." _

_I wonder if this is what schizophrenia feels like? Although the fact that Ginny was misquoting Shakespeare seemed more surreal than delusional. _

_"Is this mind reading thing all part of haunting? Because the thought of the Bloody Baron, Nearly Headless Nick, or, Merlin help us, Peeves, knowing our most intimate thoughts is kind of scary, not to mention very embarrassing!" I ask. _

_"I'm not quite sure how that bit of it works yet, I am kind of new to all of this. Its not like I have had much experience in dying you know." _

_The words sounded casual enough, but we had been almost like sisters when she was alive, and I know when she is hiding something from me. "And you know, the Hogwarts Ghosts never got into our heads, so I don't think it's like this for everyone." Smiling again, she continues._

_"Look, don't worry, I'll be ok. Its not as if I have a deadline to work to, sorry bad joke. Sirius is helping me, but there are definitely things I'm not going to discuss with a man who thinks it is still cool to wear sunglasses inside." I think her comment must have provoked a reply from Sirius because she started to laugh again._

_"No, I'm not going to tell you what he said. Its called solidarity; we dead people have to stick together you know. I think you've tortured that dough long enough; you've gotta put it in a warm place now. Delia Smith says so." _

_I'll give her Delia Smith! She's very lucky this telepathy thing she's developed doesn't work both ways._

_"Yeah, it's a shame, my heart bleeds for you. Well it would if I had one any more, and I suppose the blood would be a bit of a sticky point too--or perhaps not." It was nice to see she still had a sense of humour, even if it was at my expense._

_One hour and thirty minutes, a lot of giggling and flour later. _

_The carefully greased and-lined loaf tins were now sitting on the middle tray of the oven, just five minutes away from being released from their maturing._

_One hour forty- five minutes, hysterical laughter, and red cheeks later, two rather flat, and not entirely loaf-shaped, objects sat on the cooling rack. Not the result I was after. Still, looks weren't everything right?_

_"Hmm, Mom's never look like that, even when Fred and George slipped some weird variation of Polyjuice into the mixture when she wasn't looking."_

_I doubt Molly had ever been so silly as to try and cook with anything other than Melinda's Magi-mix and her enchanted accoutrements. Why on earth had I attempted this hair-brained scheme? I mean I could have just done it the easy way like any other witch would. Something in my nature was seemingly driving me to create the secret desires in my head, homely things that my mother had never done._

_"You're not just any other witch Herm__ione__, you're my best friend, and one of the cleverest people I know, but not everything can be learnt from inside the pages of a book. Certainly not this book anyway!" _

_If that was her attempt at consolation she wasn't doing a very good job._

_"I'm not here to console you Hermione," she replied. _

_That reply was a little ambiguous, so I asked her what she meant by it._

_"That's for me to know and you to find out," she said childishly. _

_Death didn't do anything for her maturity, I noticed._

_"Well my work is done here, for now."_

_"You always find some way of getting out of the washing up. You helped me make this mess, so don't think you can use being dead as an excuse!" All my response provoked was a giggle, a wave, and one last comment._

_"Sorry, I can't hang around. I'll pop in again though, soon. I've got to go and throw Sirius a few sticks. He can't seem to stop chasing his tail at the moment, and it's driving me demented. You'd think being dead would have slowed him down a little, but it seems to have made him worse. I think he's rubbing off on me though; Fred seemed quite shocked when I told him to bugger off the other day!" With a little flurry and a wink she disappeared. _

_Is this it? I wondered. Am I doomed to insanity now? _

_ Looking around, I can't contain the frown that mars my face, or the teeth that grip my lower lip as my eyes roam around the room regarding the mess. Oh my God where did all that flour come from?_

_"So you started the redecorating then?" His voice held an amused edge that indicated to me that a smirk accompanied the remark._

_"Well, you did say you liked a homely feel!" I quipped turning myself to face him._

_Placing his bags on the floor below his now hanging coat I watched as he walked the short distance through the fallen clouds of flour towards me. _

_"It looks good on you," he teased. Those words escorted his hands as they traced the pattern of flour that dulled the usually glossy hair, brow, cheek and nose._

_Instantly I noticed the savoury taste as my tongue moistened drying lips, my eyes in turn followed the intentions mirrored in his own. Lips echoed the actions of his fingertips and I relaxed into this familiar sensation. I felt his hands pull me to him, as I acknowledged that the warmth I felt was no longer from the heat of the oven. _

_So sensitive to his touch, I recognise every single one of his fingers as they tickle the hair at my neck's nape, and my own digits as they shrug away the buttons that confines his form from me, all the while our eyes remain fastened on their opposites, anticipating the inevitable caress. It was a game we often played, seeing who would give in first; it had lead to some rather interesting and not unpleasant results._

_My lips now find his as I decide to take the lead._

_Pausing for breath, I manage, before total incoherency takes over, to mutter a few words._

_ "How about you come and see what I've got waiting for you in the bedroom?"_

_The waxing crescent of the moon made his skin glow, telling me that early evening had led inevitably to early morning. As I lay on my stomach with my hand under my chin, I remark upon the fact that I never realised baking could be so much fun. _

_"Why don't you try your hand at cookies tomorrow?" _

_His words found my ears at the same time that his hand found the hollow at the base of my back._

_"You must know how much I like chocolate."_

__

Oh yes,I knew how much he liked chocolate,but he hadn't counted on my rather voracious appetite for the sweet delight either. Chocolate chips had never tasted so good! Finding that my cheeks were still warm, I decided to blame it on the soup. After all, a girl had a right to be allowed to use the luxury of denial now and then.

* * *

__

_"Denial is that what you women are calling it now. What a mess she's gotten herself into! Why doesn't she just get on with it and write that damn letter?"_

_Even the fact that he was dead hadn't made Sirius any less tactless. Then again, why should being dead change anything? He was a man after all!_

_"I think all that butt-sniffing you did as a dog has affected your brain. Remus is as much to blame as Hermione. Although, you're right; she does need to stop dallying and write that damn letter"_

_"Ginny Weasley I think that I'm having a bad influence on you."_

_"Well it's nice to know I get some perks out of dying!"_

_My remark causes him to burst into laughter and we walk off leaving Hermione to her soup. Perhaps I should pay her another visit soon. One thing is for sure though: Sirius is not going to let the butt-sniffing remark go without some sort of reprisal; I'd be wise to be on my guard. _

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